The Lady of Lyndon

Chapter I

"HOR many years Mr. Welby had been accus -^ tomed to pause in his walk or his drive as he passed the old house known as Lyndon Court, and, looking up at the closed windows, would say to his wife, " Ah ! I wish the old place would open its eyes again, and look upon us and brighten up all the country and people round, as it used to do in the good old times." And then Mrs. Welby would observe for the hundredth time, " Yes, I wish the Court were inhabited — it would be very pleasant to have neighbours there ; and such a good thing too for all the poor people in the parish." Mr. Welby was the clergyman of Lyndon, VOL. I. B and it was but natural they should regret the dreary aspect of the fine old place, which owned all the land in the parish of Lyndon, and extended some miles bey-ond that. His regrets too were of an individual as well as general nature, for Mr. Welby had been tutor to Sir Montague Lyndon, and had known the house in its gayest and most cheerful days.

The clergyman's wife, however, had no part in those recollections, for she had only come to Lyndon on her marriage, when Mr. Welby had been presented to the family living by his former pupil, and on the strength of that piece of good fortune had ventured at last to unite his fate to that of the woman to whom he had been engaged for manyyears past. It may therefore be inferred that neither the clergy man nor his wife were yroung people when, about ten years before the date of this story, they first took up their abode at the Lyndon parsonage. At that time Sir Montague was living abroad — he had married there, and had never visited Lyndon Court since. He wrote occasionally to his former tutor; and the poor people about were generally well cared for. It was not, however, like having the great house in the place occupied, and that was a circumstance often and feelingly deplored by Mrs. Welby.

She was, too, of a sociable disposition, and would have been glad to have had the lady of Lyndon Court within such easy reach. No one knew much about this said lady, it appeared. Sir Montague had announced his marriage with very few comments on the bare circumstance. The only person who was better informed on this important subject was a Mr. Denbigh, who lived in the neighbourhood, and had been an early friend and associate of his pupil. From Mr. Denbigh it was gathered that Sir Montague had married his wife when she was very young, and from a French school in Brussels. Lady Lyndon was English, and her name duly ascertained to be Miss Alioe Smythe. Mr. Denbigh believed her to be an orphan — he was not acquainted with any of B her family or antecedents. She was extremely beautiful — at least, people in general considered her so.

And then Mrs. Welby would ask, And was the lady as good as she was handsome ? and with every appearance of sincerity, Mr. Den bigh would declare he had no reason to believe otherwise. Time passed on, and still the absent master of the Court came not ; but it seemed Sir Mon tague, when in England, passed much of his time at a pretty place he owned on the southern coast ; whilst he also made frequent excursions to Scotland, and it was said spent some weeks there everyyear. It was tantalizing to Mr. Welby and his wife to hear these flying rumours of his friend and patron, almost within reach it seemed, and often passing and repassing within some score of miles of his own old ancestral place, and yet never coming within sight or sound of it. At last there came a report from his steward that Sir Montague's health was failing — Lady Lyn don appeared to write all her husband's letters.

The old man expressed his fears to the clergy man that Sir Montague was destined, like the rest of his family, to an early grave. Mrs. Welby heard the report from her hus band with a kindly, sympathizing heart, for she had often heard him speak of the brother and the two sisters who had died early, but not before he had known the family. "But Sir Montague has a family, I think?" asked the clergyrman's wife in her gentle tones. " Yes, y7es, to be sure — there were three of them, but only two now ; and they must be growing up. Yes, it is a great blessing and comfort that there are children." " Yes, a child — that is, children —are great comforts and blessings," replied the wife, in a choked voice. And then her thoughts reverted to a little grave in the churchyard close by, where the grass and the daisies had long been growing, as well as a few simple flowers, plant ed round and cherished by loving hands.

It was the grave of the first and last blessing of that kind sent to the clergyman and his wife — oh ! how dearly prized ! — sent at the end of the first year of their married happiness, to fill up, as it seemed, their cup of joy. And then, two or three short years after, as mysteriously it was taken away. It was a bitter and hard trial, aud at first the sorrowing parents were tempt ed to ask — Why had the blessing been sent only, as it were, to break their hearts by its early removal ? No doubt, to their patient, faithful hearts an answer was vouchsafed, which brought, in due time, that peaceful resig nation which had upheld them throughout. At all events, there was one lesson learned during that brief season of happiness which survived the wreck of its extinction, and that was to inspire the clergyman and his wife with the tenderest interest in, and sympathy for, the youngest and weakest members of their flock, and also to teach in its fullest and deepest significance the obligations and requirements of all that the endearing term " paternity " embraces, either as regards its divine or human relation.

" Don't grieve, wife, or murmur, by looking back too longingly," said the clergy7man tender ly, as he marked the course his wife's thoughts had taken, and pressed her arm more closely to his side, as if to shield and protect her from the incursion of too sorrowful recollections. He might well have added, as she looked up in his kind, thoughtful face with a smile full of hope and faith — " Am I not better to thee than ten sons ?" and the answer would no doubt have been satisfactory. Well, they were a good and even enviable pair, this quiet, commonplace clergyman and his wife. Soon after the last announcement concerning Sir Montague Lyndon came the news that he had died of rapid decline at his place in Devon shire, on the coast, leaving one son, the pres ent baronet, and a daughter. This important piece of news of course gave rise to endless conjectures and speculations, concerning the family thus left, in a place where the Lyndons had reigned, as it were, for so many genera tions.

By dihgent reference to that convenient and indispensable Red Book chronicling the dates of births, marriages, and deaths of the upper ten, it was duly ascertained that the present Sir Vere Lyndon was twenty, and Mr. Denbigh furnished the further information that his sister was two years younger. Then followed the question of breathless interest — Were these young people and their mother likely now to take up their abode at the long desert ed family place ? This was a query7 no one could satisfactorily answer, but it was one which was much debated at the time, not only throughout the parish of Lyndon itself, but quite as much in the adjacent populous little town of Hilborough and the surrounding neigh bourhood. Mr. Denbigh's place, Nether Hall, was close to this said town of Hilborough — indeed, the lodge gates on one side opened into the wide common that skirted the furthest end of the town from the Lyndon side.

There was a fine avenue of sweet chestnut-trees which led from the gates directly to the house, dimly visible therefrom about half a mile distant, and this avenue was one of the most remarkable features of the place. The house was a massive red brick pile of building, with turreted corners and stone casements, rather heavy7, and somewhat ugly, but respectable in its antiquity and the air of opulent comfort which reigned within and without, and characterized everything be longing to Mr. Denbigh. He had inherited the property when quite a young man from a long line of ancestors, who had held their own in that neighbourhood without much change of circumstances, or seemingly any ambitious de sire on their part either to enlarge their domain or to quit it for any other. The present man was a widower with an only son.

He had followed somewhat closely in the footsteps of his predecessors, maintaining the character of high-bred respectability and honour for which the Denbighs had been ever noted. They were essentially a county family of the highest class amongst its commoners, not on account of its wealth, though that was con siderable. Still there were many men of larger means and more extensive property in the county, that could never have commanded the same respect and consideration that the Den bighs of Nether Hall met with habitually. A " Denbigh " — man or woman — never mar ried out of his or her own class. There had not been such a thing on record as a misalliance in the old family. Neither had there been any spendthrifts among the elder, or black sheep among the junior branches of the family. The family estate had hitherto provided handsomely for all its children, and the Army was generally the chosen profession of its younger sons.

This Nether Hall was the principal, indeed only large place in the immediate vicinity of Hilborough, but there was another house not far distant which had its distinctive claims to consideration. This place was called " The Grove," and also belonged to Mr. Denbigh. It had always been appropriated as the Dower house to the use of the Denbigh ladies, when unfortunately called upon to leave Nether Hall. Owing to the early death of the present possessor's mother, there had been no use for the place in the family, and in consequence Mr. Denbigh had let it soon after he succeeded to the pro perty, manyyears ago. It was the opinion of the town of Hilborough that Mr. Denbigh had done well in so doing, and was fortunate in the tenant thus secured, and that the town itself received an accession of dignity and importance when the Dowager Lady Fullerton, widow of the Earl of that name (and one of the county mag nates), took up her abode at Hilborough Grove.

The town of Hilborough, and the inhabitants in general, were certainly disinterested in their rejoicings at the advent of Lady Fullerton. She was the second wife of the Earl, and was left with a somewhat slender provision for herself and only daughter. Ber son had already been installed in a family living in the neighbourhood. Mr. Denbigh might have had an arriere pensee in his desire to secure Lady Fullerton as his tenant. She was not a pleasant person herself. She was both poor and proud. Her own family was as good as her husband's, but a very impoverished one — so she had little or nothing to expect from them. Her stepson, the present Earl, would have done anything he could for his father's widow, but unhappily he had a wife who was adverse to his good intentions, and by her he was governed or guided in most things, especially when his own inclinations tallied with hers.

It therefore came to pass that Lady Fullerton (Dowager) entered with great readiness into the proposition — how originated no one can tell — that she should hire Mr. Denbigh's vacant place, called the Grove, and about twenty7 miles from Hampden Castle. Mr. Denbigh, during the time he was young and unmarried, was often at the Castle, and he had seen and admired Lady Jane Hampden, who was then hardly introduced. Lady Ful lerton, on her part, had noted this circum stance, and she was glad to encourage it by be coming Mr. Denbigh's tenant ; and thus it was they came to Hilborough Grove. Lady Jane was at that time a fine-looking girl, with frank, pleasant manners, and something about her that passed for beauty — or made up for the want of it. Mr. Denbigh's love was not fated to meet with the return it deserved — for she unfortunately preferred his friend Mr. Lyndon.

The three families were on intimate terms, and Lady Fullerton would have been perfectly satisfied with either of the young men as her son-in-law. There was a time when Mr. Lyndon seemed likely to gain the prize. Mr. Denbigh was given to understand, in the kindest way possible, by Lady Jane herself, that he had no chance ; and he then withdrew, and left the field open to his friend. For some time all went well. Mr. Lyndon was one of the handsomest, most fascinating men of his day, and Lady Jane Hampden loved him well — too well for her own peace of mind, for after a time his attentions began to slacken, and his ardour to cool. About that time his father (who had earnestly desired the match) died. Sir Montague, after pretending to be deeply engrossed with the many tilings devolv ing upon him in his new position, at last ceased to visit at the Grove.

Soon after he went abroad, remained there, and when there married, Lady7 Jane became an altered woman after that. She lost her bloom and good looks early, and her frank, open manner was succeeded by a certain brusqueness of bearing and of speech. The Dowager deplored the loss of both such eligible sons-in-law. For Mr. Denbigh she al ways retained her former partiality, but was in the habit of making bitter and sarcastic remarks touching Sir Montague's marriage, and his affairs in general. Lady Jane, when present, al ways cut these observations very short, but when she was absent her mother would indulge more at large with the savoured few who were ad mitted to her intimate acquaintance, and to the privilege of enlivening her unoccupied hours with the small gossip of the country town and neighbourhood around.

At the head of this chosen and favoured band stood two ladies of middle age — inveterate talkers and gossips, it must be allowed. Still they were good-hearted women and well-connected — ladies both by birth and education — and best known throughout Hilborough as " the Admiral's daughters."

Chapter II

npHESE two ladies were, however, simply the -*- daughters of a Captain Tempest, in the Royal Navy. He was a curious specimen of the genuine unalloyed " British Tar," as he existed some half century ago. No doubt Captain Tem pest ought long before his decease to have been an admiral ; and it was owing to his vehe mently-expressed opinion on that head, as well as his own appreciation of his merits as a naval commander, that he obtained the sobriquet of "the Admiral." He belonged to a county family of some importance, but which, like the rest of the world, failed to recognise his peculiar claims to distinction ; therefore Captain Tempest saw but little of his relations, and when he did so, it was to be feared he did not make himself as agreeable as might have been desired. There was happily7 one person in the world who accredited him according to his own valua tion, and that happened to be the gentle woman he took to be his wife.

Mrs. Tempest was a native of Littleborough, and inheriting a small property there, her husband honoured the place by fixing his residence there when not in active service, and at last leaving his familyto inherit the house he had built. It was a strange, uncomfortable sort of dwell ing that Captain Temple caused to be erected in place of the comfortable farm-house he chose to pull down. As he elected, however, to live there himself, and farm his own land when not better engaged, no one could object to any sort of dwelling it might please the eccentric captain to build. This place he called " The Cabin," and whatever others might think of the build ing, it is certain the owner of it regarded it with feelings of unmitigated admiration. No thing could be more queer and uncomfortable C VOL. I. when finished than this habitation, both inside and out.

And so the Cabin remained till after the death of the " Admiral." His wife had preceded him some few years, and people said he had never been the same since. He had shown but little affection for his gentle helpmate during her life, but he broke down perceptibly after he lost her. He bequeathed the Cabin, with all the curiosities contained in it, and a small income, to his two daughters. His only son had mar ried to displease him, and to him he left nothing. Soon after both the son and his wife died, leaving as their sole inheritance two orphan children, recommending them to the tender mercies of their maiden aunts, Arethusa and Penelope Tempest. These ladies were by no means indisposed to undertake the charge thus entrusted to them, Arethusa thinking herself perfectly competent to direct a masculine edu cation ; whilst Penelope was equally ardent in her desire to bring up the little girl according to her own peculiar views and opinions.

Thus were the two orphan children speedily committed to the care and guardianship of their maiden aunts. The boy, Fitzgerald — commonly called Fitz — being a handsome, quick lad of his age, soon managed to obtain a certain ascendency over his eldest aunt, who had been too long accustomed to obey, to have acquired any very strong habits of command, and soon became a perfect slave to the bright, bold, big boy 6he had intended to bring up and educate according to her own plan. Happily for Fitz, before he was quite spoiled, an old friend of his father's came to the rescue, got the lad sent to the Naval Academy at Blackheath, and then took him out with him in his own ship, and out of harm's way at the Cabin. This Cabin had somewhat improved in appearance since the two spinster sisters held undis puted sway there.

Its outside unsightliness was in great measure veiled and softened by the ivy and various plants they now trained all over its walls. The ship-shape cut and order too of everything within the Cabin was much modi fied and improved. Both sisters, however, re- C2 tained an almost superstitious veneration for some of the monster marine curiosities collected there by their father ; and although they had rather looked upon them with horror during the Admiral's lifetime, they became after his death a sort of sacred bequest, which neither of the sisters cared to remove. Little Winifred, who at first regarded the stuffed crocodile with the most lively dread, became so well accustomed to its mute pre sence, that her aunts were satisfied it was as good as a lesson in natural history to the child, and as useful as it was ornamental.

Penelope did not get on as well as she ex pected in her work of education. She had, like most spinsters, a very visionary idea of the pleasures of training the infant mind. Little Winnie was very idle, and she became peevish when urged to do anything she disliked. Then she was extremely pretty and very delicate — looking so, at all events— and Penelope did not like to make the child cry, and redden her pretty eyes. And soon the little girl began to find out that, by kissing and coaxing, she could ward off the objectionable lessons, whilst music and drawing were sure to bring on a headache ; so Winnie stood as good a chance of being spoilt by Penelope as Fitz had narrowly es caped with his Aunt Arathusa. Winnie's education soon became a very hopeless affair, as she had a quiet way of putting aside all dis agreeables in the way of instruction, and going her own way ; whilst Penelope fagged after her impracticable niece, and began to despair of the success of her best and most perfect scheme of education.

One day Lady Jane came to the rescue of the perplexed aunt, to the confusion of her contrary pupil. " What is the matter?" asked Lady Jane, as, after the usual greetings were over, she ob served Penelope's tired countenance, and the languid look and attitude of the young scholar. " I don't know," said the puzzled Penelope ; " but it seems I cannot make this arithmetic in any way clear to Winnie's comprehension. She seems to understand it one minute and forget it the next." " Let me look at your slate, Winnie," said the visitor. Winnie's slate was given up with an air of careless indifference, and was found to be covered with strange animals and people — everything, in short, but the figures that ought to have been visible. " But where is your sum, child ?" asked Lady Jane sharply. " Oh ! that's it," replied Winnie.

"What do you mean? I see nothing but bad drawings of ugly people and things." " Oh ! they stand for the other figures. I can't carry them else in my head — I get so puzzled — and it aches already." " Send her out for a walk, then," said Lady Jane, to the entire satisfaction of both teacher and pupil. And then, as soon as the child was gone, she turned to the aunt and said shortly, " Send her to school." " Oh ! but she is so delicate ! " pleaded Pene lope. " Winnie will get strong enough there." After a little more argument and persuasion, Lady Jane carried the day. Winnie Tempest went to a tolerably good school, and Aunt Penelope was delivered from the torments of teaching. It was very pleasant, after that, having the child at home for the holidays, when there was no necessity for application of any sort or kind ; and Winnie had pretty loving ways that made her quite an idol to her aunts, especially Penelope, who considered Winnie her especial charge, whilst the boy belonged more exclusively to her elder sister.

Fitz, too, came home in his turn, for he considered the Cabin as his real home ; and when he first came back from sea everyone in it was so pleased to see, and proud of the handsome sailor boy. Happily Fitz Tempest had not much idle time on his hands, in the early years of his pro fession, to bestow on any of his friends. He had been quickly passed from one ship to au other, at the instance of the friend who had first taken him up, and who wisely7 considered constant employment was the most essential service he could render the boy. In due time Fitz stepped out of his midship man's berth into the more important position of lieutenant, his first voyage being made in that capacity in his patron, Captain Dundas's, own ship. At the present time, Fitz was daily ex pected home, after an absence of three years ; and Winnie, who had taken her final leave of school life about a year previous, was raptu rously looking forward to such a delightful break in the somewhat monotonous existence she led with her two aunts at the Cabin.

This life, however, composed as it was of small in terests, was not wholly distasteful to Winnie. She rather enjoyed the petty details of village gossip, and entered warmly into all the con cerns of her neighbours, either as they came under her own observation, or as retailed for her edification by her two aunts. She delighted in wandering from house to house, and picking up all the crumbs of gossip that fell in her way. Poor Winnie ! she had not much amusement at home, nor much talent for finding it for her self. Her aunt Arethusa, after attentively studying her young niece's inclinations and habits, with the view of providing something of a small library for her use and edification, came to the conclusion that books of any kind were not much in Winnie's way. " In fact, I fear," said she to her sister one day, in strict confidence, "I fear that Winnie is a bit of a dunce."

Penelope heard the awful verdict with some thing of a smile, followed by a little sigh, as she observed in reply, " All the consequence of sending the poor child to school — she got such a surfeit of books there ; it would not have been so if I could have followed out my plan and brought her up my own way." " But you know you could not do it, Pen, so where is the good of talking about it now ?." And after that weighty argument, poor Pene lope held her tongue, and gave in to her elder sister, as she was wont at most times to do. There was undoubtedly a spice of the old sea captain in his eldest daughter's composition, but it had, happily for herself and others, been so kept under in her more youthful days that it seldom made itself unpleasantly apparent. It happened one bright summer day, some where about this time, when the sisters had been discussing their pretty little niece's pro pensities and prospects in various ways, that the said young person made her sudden and rather unexpected appearance.

Winnie had gone off early in the morning to spend a long day at Lyndon Parsonage with Mrs. Welby, and when that was the case she seldom returned till late in the evening. It was barely four o'clock when Winnie walked in through the open window, or rather door, in the Cabin drawing-room, which always stood open, the room looking out into the little lawn gar den. " Why, child, how early you are come back ! Are the Welbys going out to dinner ?" asked Aunt Penelope, at the first glance. Whilst her sister, having scanned the young lady's appearance more narrowly, exclaimed, " What an object you look, Winnie ! — for all the world as if you had been tearing through all the gooseberry bushes in the country ! — your nice new muslin is all torn ; and I see your gloves and hands stained as well." "So they are, auntie ; and I have been amongst the bushes in the Rectory garden all the morning, helping old Sally to gather the currants, and pick them for preserving."

" Dear me, what a child you are still, Winnie !" sighed Penelope. Her sister asked, "And where was Mrs. Welby all the time that you were improving your mind and your muslin in that way?" " Oh ! not far off — she was in and out all the time, and we bad a great deal of nice improving chat — quite enough to satisfy you, Auntie Thusy." " And Mr. Welby — wasn't he at home too ?" asked Penelope. " No — he was out all the morning ; and then, when he came back, he brought such a delightful little, or rather great piece of news, that I came straight home to tell you both. And now," continued the girl, with a mischievous pout, " you both seem so little pleased with me and my appearance in any way-, that— that really I think I had better keep my news to myself." " Oh ! Winnie," pleaded Aunt Pen, quite pa thetically, " how can you say both.

I am sure I only wanted to know the reason you came back sooner than you intended, and have never made a remark of any kind as to your looks or anything." " Well, then, it was Aunt Arethusa, who was so unkind." " Come, come," said the accused lady, briskly, " tell us all you have got to tell, child. I am sure you are quite as ready and anxious to tell as we are to hear." " Oh ! you are ready and anxious ! Well, that confession mends the matter a little. So now, listen, Aunt Pen, and Aunt Thusie. Mr. Welby heard to-day that — that — that the family at Lyndon Court are coming home directly. There, what do you think of my news ?" "Goodness!" said Penelope, "what a thing it will be for all the neighbourhood, won't it, Arethusa?" " I wonder whether it is true ? It is not the first time there has been such a report," observed Miss Tempest, cautiously.

" True !" exclaimed Winnie, impetuously. " It is as true as black and white can make it. Why, it came in a letter from Lady Lyndon herself to the steward who lives up at the Court; — or rather close by, in that pretty little house near the gardens, Mr. Pitman. You know whom I mean ?" " I should think so, child. Well, if he said it, and Lady Lyndon really wrote to say it, I suppose there is something in it," replied Aunt Arethusa. " I should think there must be, indeed ! I wonder if anyone else in the place has heard it ?" said Penelope. " I can tell you no one has yet, and that was why I ran home so fast to let you know. And a pretty reception I got. I tore my dress getting over the gate — the near way across the meadow," said Winnie, laughing as she displayed the rent. The young girl looked very pretty as she stood there, even in her somewhat dishevelled state.